The Doomsters

25

I SAW the reason for Mildred’s delay when she appeared finally. She’d brushed her hair shining, changed to a black jersey dress which molded her figure and challenged comparison with it, changed to heels which added three inches to her height. She stood in the doorway, holding out both her hands. Her smile was forced and brilliant: “I’m so glad to see you, Miss Parish. Forgive me for keeping you waiting. I know how precious your time must be, with all your nursing duties.”

“I’m not a nurse.” Miss Parish was upset. For a moment she looked quite ugly, with her black brows pulled down and her lower lip pushed out.

“I’m sorry, did I make a mistake? I thought Carl mentioned you as one of his nurses. He has mentioned you, you know.”

Miss Parish rose rather awkwardly to the occasion. I gathered that the two young women had crossed swords or needles before. “It doesn’t matter, dear. I know you’ve had a bad day.”

“You’re so sympathetic, Rose. Carl thinks so, too. You don’t mind if I call you Rose? I’ve felt so close to you, through Carl.”

“I want you to call me Rose. I’d love nothing better than for you to regard me as a big sister, somebody you can lean on.”

Like other forthright people, Miss Parish got very phony when she got phony at all. I guessed that she’d come with some notion of mothering Mildred, the next best thing to mothering Mildred’s husband. Clumsily, she tried to embrace the smaller woman. Mildred evaded her: “Won’t you sit down? I’ll make you a cup of tea.”

“Oh, no thanks.”

“You must take something. You’ve come such a long way. Let me get you something to eat.”

“Oh, no.”

“Why not?” Mildred stared frankly at the other woman’s body. “Are you dieting?”

“No. Perhaps I ought to.” Large and outwitted and rebuffed, Miss Parish sank into a chair. Its springs creaked satirically under her weight. She tried to look small. “Perhaps, if I could have a drink?”

“I’m sorry.” Mildred glanced at the bottle on the piano, and met the issue head-on. “There’s nothing in the house. My mother happens to drink too much. I try to keep it unavailable. I don’t always succeed, as you doubtless know. You hospital workers keep close tabs on the patients’ relatives, don’t you?”

“Oh, no,” Miss Parish said. “We don’t have the staff–”

“What a pity. But I can’t complain. You’ve made an exception for me. I think it’s marvelous of you. It makes me feel so looked-after.”

“I’m sorry you feel that way. I just came by to help in any way I could.”

“How thoughtful of you. I hate to disappoint you. My husband is not here.”

Miss Parish was being badly mauled. Although in a way she’d asked for it, I felt sorry for her.

“About that drink,” I said with faked cheerfulness. “I could use a drink, too. What do you say we surge out and find one, Rose?”

She looked up gratefully, from the detailed study she had been making of her fingernails. I noticed that they had been bitten short. Mildred said: “Please don’t rush away. I could have a bottle sent in from the liquor store. Perhaps my mother will join you. We could have a party.”

“Lay off,” I said to her under my breath.

She answered with her brilliant smile: “I hate to appear inhospitable.”

The situation was getting nowhere except on my nerves. It was terminated abruptly by a scuffle of feet on the porch, a knock on the door. The two women followed me to the door. It was Carmichael, the sheriff’s deputy. Behind him in the street, the sheriff’s car was pulling away from the curb.

“What is it?” Mildred said.

“We just got a radio report from the Highway Patrol. A man answering your husband’s description was sighted at the Red Barn drive-in. Sheriff Ostervelt thought you ought to be warned. Apparently he’s headed in this direction.”

“I’m glad if he is,” Mildred said.

Carmichael gave her an astonished look. “Just the same, I’ll keep guard on the house. Inside if you want.”

“It isn’t necessary. I’m not afraid of my husband.”

“Neither am I,” Miss Parish said behind her. “I know the man thoroughly. He isn’t dangerous.”

“A lot of people think different, ma’am.”

“I know Sheriff Ostervelt thinks different. What orders did he give you, concerning the use of your gun?”

“I use my own discretion if Hallman shows. Naturally I’m not going to shoot him if I don’t have to.”

“You’d be wise to stick to that, Mr. Carmichael.” Miss Parish’s voice had regained its authority. “Mr. Hallman is a suspect, not a convict. You don’t want to do something that you’ll regret to the end of your days.”

“She’s right,” I said. “Take him without gunfire if you can. He’s a sick man, remember.”

Carmichael’s mouth set stubbornly. I’d seen that expression on his face before, in the Hallman greenhouse. “His brother Jerry is sicker. We don’t want any more killings.”

“That’s my point exactly.”

Carmichael turned away, refusing to argue further. “Anyway,” he said from the steps, “I’m keeping guard on the house. Even if you don’t see me, I’ll be within call.”

The low augh of a distant siren rose to an ee. Mildred shut the door on the sound, the voice of the treacherous night. Behind her freshly painted mask her face was haggard.

“They want to kill him, don’t they?”

“Nonsense,” Miss Parish said in her heartiest voice.

“I think we should try to get to him first,” I said.

Mildred leaned on the door. “I wonder – it’s barely possible he’s trying to reach Mrs. Hutchinson’s house. She lives directly across the highway from the Red Barn.”

“Who on earth is Mrs. Hutchinson?” Miss Parish said.

“My sister-in-law’s housekeeper. She has Zinnie’s little girl with her.”

“Why don’t you phone Mrs. Hutchinson?”

“She has no phone, or I’d have been in touch long ago. I’ve been worried about Martha. Mrs. Hutchinson means well, but she’s an old woman.”

Miss Parish gave her a swift, dark look. “You don’t seriously think there’s any danger to the child?”

“I don’t know.”

None of us knew. On a deeper level than I’d been willing to recognize till now, I experienced fear. Fear of the treacherous darkness around us and inside of us, fear of the blind destruction that had wiped out most of a family and threatened the rest.

“We could easily check on Martha,” I said, “or have the police check.”

“Let’s keep them out of it for now,” Miss Parish said. “What’s this Mrs. Hutchinson’s address?”

“Fourteen Chestnut Street. It’s a little white frame cottage between Elmwood and the highway.” Mildred opened the door and pointed down the street. “I can easily show you.”

“No. You better stay here, dear.”

Rose Parish’s face was dismal. She was afraid, too.